


between a hawke and a hard place

by Wintertree



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Treat, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 18:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16225301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintertree/pseuds/Wintertree
Summary: in which Carver says "screw this" and goes to Skyhold to give Hawke a what-for, and Cullen accidentally gets in the middle of the Hawke sibling squabble (but it's okay because Carver is pretty)





	between a hawke and a hard place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bestie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bestie/gifts).



> hey bestie, I hope you enjoy as I try to sneak this fic riiiiiight under the gun!

_You’re going to want to come speak to the Champion in the garden, quickly -V_

Cullen can feel a headache beginning to form as he makes his way across ramparts. Sod Varric, he’s going rather briskly but refuses to outright hurry on the dwarf’s vague demands. He quite likes Hawke, truly, but nearly a decade of experience has taught him that nothing good comes of needing to speak to her.

As he enters the Hall, Varric just smirks and points to the garden.

Oh Maker.

He hears Hawke before he sees her, loudly laughing and bickering with a man near the gazebo. Cullen nods at a trio of scowling Chantry sisters as he walks past.

As he approaches, he can see the man – a Grey Warden, judging by the insignia – gripping the handle of his longsword as he rows furiously with Hawke. Despite her joking tone, his counters harsh and angry. A couple of his templars shift nervously around the outer edge of the garden, but Hawke’s body language is open and relaxed. She spots Cullen and rewards him with a toothy grin.

“Hullo, Cullen. You remember my dear, sweet brother,” she calls.

The man stops mid-sentence (or mid-insult) and whips around, blinking in surprise. “Knight Captain.”

“It's Commander, nowadays,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Sure enough, it's the younger Hawke. His memory of him is a bit murky—he was never _nearly_ as troublesome as his sister—and the last time they spoke was more a grim nod over Meredith’s corpse. His dark hair is cropped tight to his skull, and without the heavy Warden armor, he can see the added mass around his arms and core. He’s older, but the scowl on his face is certainly familiar to the faded image of the boyish man he used to know.

But Carver wipes the scowl off his face, straightening and standing a bit proud.

“I had heard you joined the Inquisition, ser,” he says. “I hope my idiot sister hasn’t already burnt down the Keep.” Despite his tone, Carver seems to finally clock the templars listening in, and subtly tries to angle his body in front of her.

Ah, Cullen hadn’t forgotten that aspect of him. He waves off his men and leads the two Hawkes toward the gazebo.

“It’s made entirely of stone and atop a snowy mountain, I’d be impressed if she was able.”

“Trust me, Commander, I’ve seen her do worse.”

Hawke sends a tiny electric shock of magic at Carver, making him yelp and jump. The look he gives her could curdle milk. Varric was a genius for sitting this one out.

“Is there something in particular at cause for today’s, ah, lively discussion?”

“A demon stole all the good sense from my sister’s skull. Lock her in the tower and throw away the key.”

Hawke rolls her eyes. “He’s pissy that I came here without sending him a gilded invite.”

He sputters. “You sent me three words on a napkin! ‘Go with Aveline,’ it read, complete with a grease stain, and I had barely two minutes before that woman threw me on a boat for Rivain. I hope you were kinder to Merrill.”

Her eyes flash. “Oh, and would you have preferred staying in Orlais? How many letters did you send me again about how cruel it was that their pretty maids hid behind masks?” She clutches her chest. “‘Oh dear sister, each day is _agony._ ’ At least when women reject you in Rivain, you can write poems about their cheekbones.”

Carver goes beet red, but sets his jaw. “I hear it too, Marian. It sings to me and it sings for _them._ This is my fight, not yours.”

Hawke remains physically relaxed, but even Cullen can recognize that the flinty look in her eye means no good.

“Then we thank you for your help, Warden,” he interjects.

“He’s not staying,” she bites out.

“He will tonight, at least," he says quickly. "I’ll have Josephine’s men prepare a room and a bath, but for now I must request his presence in my office. Apologies, Hawke, but I need to know as much as I can about the Wardens.” Cullen lightly touches below Carver’s elbow. “Right this way.”

Carver blinks once again without moving.

Hawke snorts. “Oh, I remember _that_ look, brother.”

The tip of Carver’s ears go a furious shade of red instantly. “Oh, shut up,” he says, but without much heat.

As Carver follows Cullen through the Hall, Varric appears to be studiously writing a letter. Sneaky, genius bastard.

 

The pounding in his head recedes sometime mid-interview with Carver. He’s quick and to the point, offering intel on Warden hierarchy and strategy, although he admits he lacks current knowledge on their plans since he left the front lines. Cullen’s sent his pages back to their quarters for the evening with preliminary notes, and he’ll take the rest of his thoughts to the advisors tomorrow.

Out of his sister’s orbit, Carver’s more relaxed. Calmer, less prickly. Maker knows Cullen’s own relationship with Mia can be tense at times, but Cullen wants to stay completely out of that knot of guilt and love and resentment.

After they’re done, Carver sighs and leans back in his chair, eyes closed.

“Do you...” Cullen trails off.

“Hear it now?” Carver opens one eye and gives him a wry smile. “Constantly, day or night. Thought I’d have another decade or so, at least.” Cullen hums. He knows that feeling. “But hiding won’t solve it.”

“You realize that if I let you defect to the Inquisition, your sister will slit my throat in my sleep?”

He chuckles. “She’s all bark. But I’m telling you the truth, this isn’t her fight, and if she continues like this, she’s going to get herself killed.”

Well, that’s an unexpected thought coming from him. Cullen tells Carver as much.

“Really? This _is_ Hawke we’re talking about. She's never met a problem she’s didn’t try to jump in and fix, players involved be damned. And she’s never forgiven herself for letting me get the Taint, so she’s too stubborn to leave now and stay gone.” He straightens up. “Don’t get me wrong, I am a Grey Warden. It’s my duty, but it’s also my honor. I fight beside good men and women every day to keep Thedas safe, and if hadn’t been forced to join when I did, I probably would have become a bloody templar to keep her from making an ass of herself in Kirkwall. Ah, no offense.”

“None taken,” Cullen says, waving it away. “For what it’s worth, I think you would have made a good templar.”

Carver barks out a laugh. “Oh, no I really wouldn’t have. I was a right ass, arrogant and stupid.” He leans forward. “That’s where you say, ‘Oh Maker no, Carver, you’re a true delight!’”

“Oh I would, would I?”

“Yes, but add something nice about my muscles, too.” That startles a laugh out of Cullen in return.

“See? Another good thing about the Wardens. I’m a riot at Weisshaupt.”

“Low bar.”

“Oy, watch it,” he says, but with good humor in his voice. “Only I’m allowed to rib them.”

“Or Hawke.”

“Or her,” he agrees. “But even then. I’m just ‘Carver,’ and she’s ‘Hawke.’ Gets the family name and I get the afterthought.”

Cullen stands and head’s to his shelf. “You also got the rippling muscles.”

“You’re funnier than I remember,” Carver accuses with a pointed finger.

Cullen returns and places two tumblers and a bottle of Antivan whiskey on the desk. “I was always funny. I once told a story in the barracks that made three separate recruits piss themselves. Had to clean the latrines for two weeks, but it was worth it.”

He struggles with the cork for a second, fingers stiff, and hopes to Andraste they don’t begin shaking again.

“What vintage is that?” Carver asks, beckoning the bottle over to read the label. His eyes must be sharp, reading the small print in the dim light of the room—when did it become so late?—but he makes a pleased noise and quickly uncorks the bottle, pouring them a generous two fingers.

“To the Grey Wardens,” Cullen toasts.

“And to the Templars,” Carver replies.

They sit quietly for a moment, sipping the whiskey. It’s good, smoky and warm.

“I’m serious, though. You seem much different than before,” Carver says.

And so does he, Cullen thinks. He keeps that thought to himself. “A lot has changed.”

“How long have you been off lyrium?”

Cullen looks at him in surprise. Carver’s eyes _must_ be sharp. “A while.” He traces the rim of his glass. “I assure you, it doesn’t affect my ability to lead our troops. I can’t promise Hawke’s safety, but my men—”

Carver cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “You misunderstand me. The change is good. You’re a lot less…” he trails off, searching for a word.

“Intense? Cruel?”

“You’re still plenty intense, Commander.” Carver finishes his glass and pours himself some more. “I don’t know about cruel. Hollow, maybe. You know, I used to have horrible nightmares about you.”

Cullen’s throat goes dry. “Oh?”

“Well, not just you. But the Kirkwall mages, they whispered. And I was there when the Chantry blew. Both my sisters were mages, and now I work alongside them in the Deep Roads. Even before all that, I knew that abominations don't happen in a vacuum without violence.” Carver chuckles again, but this time without mirth. “I used to practice speeches in my head before I slept. Hours, trying to craft the perfect thing to say to my mother when you’d come and drag away her only remaining daughter to imprisonment, Tranquility, or death. But I ended up leaving first.”

“Your mother seemed a good woman.” She did, as best he could tell or remember. Cullen never met the woman himself, but he knew of the Amell family.

“She was.” He rubs his face. “Want to hear something dark? Whenever Hawke went on one of her little missions without me, I used to go to the Gallows. Sometimes I’d buy a trinket or two, but mostly I watched you. Watched how you trained, how you fought. You were fair and reasonable with your men, but unwavering in your belief. I thought one day I’d have to kill you and stash my sister with the Dalish.” Carver looks at him, eyes not hard, but steady.

“Good thing I wavered.” Carver hums in response and Cullen downs his drink. “To be honest, I still dream every night about mages picking the skin from my bones. Or demons whispering all matter of horrible secrets.”

“Did the lyrium help?” Carver pours him another finger.

“The dreams, yes. Being awake with those thoughts? Not so much, no.”

Carver holds his glass up for another toast. “To saying ‘fuck it’ to the world and our broken minds and bodies.”

“Fuck it,” Cullen responds, a smile playing on his lips. He normally only speaks to the Seeker about his nightmares, but it’s not the same. She never needed the lyrium to be strong. The liquor rests low and warm in his belly, and it loosens his tongue. “Bring your gear to the courtyard at second bell tomorrow. We can spar, see how much of me you actually remember.”

Carver groans as he looks out the window. “Will it be this cold then? It was nice midday.”

“Sometimes. But your room should have a hearth, so at least you’ll be cozy at night.”

“Right,” Carver says. He scratches at his jaw, fingernails rasping over stubble, before standing and giving Cullen an intense look, eyes bright. “This may be exceptionally stupid of me.”

Cullen waits for Carver to finish the thought, but a hot pulse courses through him when he realizes what he’s not-asking asking for. He feels a bit lightheaded from the alcohol, but they didn’t drink enough for either of their senses to get too dulled. It’s not what he expected when he saw Carver in the garden, and _certainly_ not what he expected when he woke up this morning. He's suddenly aware of the ladder to his room, visible just in the corner of his eye.

Carver’s not… unattractive. From this angle he can see dark chest hair peeking up through the top of his tunic, and despite not taking a bath yet, he doesn’t smell sour (and Cullen’s never much minded the smell of other men after a hard day’s ride). He truly doesn't remember Carver watching him, studying him for days at a time, but the image almost perversely appeals to him. Cullen feels itchy and tight remembering Kirkwall, and he doesn’t dread the thought of a warm body keeping some of his worse nightmares away. Or someone who won't get spooked when they invariably come. He never found much satisfaction in quick dalliances, and Hawke really would kill him if he touched her brother.

But he hesitates too long. Carver downs the last of his drink with a self conscious wink. “I’ll see you at second bell.”

“Right,” Cullen says, not daring to clear his throat as Carver gathers his things. “Bring a poultice, I won’t be easy on you.”

Carver laughs. “Oh, no one’s ever called you easy, Commander.” Was his voice always that deep? Maker, Cullen hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels hot. Something flickers in Carver’s eyes as he registers Cullen’s discomfort rather than disinterest. “Have a good night, Cullen.”

With that, he leaves. Cullen groans and hits his head a couple of times on the desk, indulging in feeling sorry for himself for a minute before pulling himself together.

It’s going to be a long night.

 

It’s also obscenely fun sparring with Carver. He’s aggressive and competitive, but keeps his footwork neat and quick. Cullen racks his brain, but he wasn’t really paying attention to Carver’s fighting style during the mage revolt. His mind was a bit preoccupied elsewhere, to be frank.

He’s sure he would have remembered if he fought like _this_. He’s not as strong with a shield, but when Iron Bull lends him his cleaver for a round against the Chargers, Carver has a look on his face like he’s met the Maker himself. Cullen wisely stays out of reach as it whistles through the air and splits a dummy cleanly in two. Cullen recognizes the technique as a classic Grey Warden move, different from the Fereldan style he loosely remembers Carver using. He's not the same man who ran a smuggling operation with Hawke years ago, chip on his shoulder and biting at any hand that came near him. The life Carver's lived post-Kirkwall has changed him, perhaps for the better. Cullen envies it.

Cullen wills himself not to chug his waterskin in seconds. He’s sure he looks a right mess, face blotchy and hair haphazard with sweat. Carver just _glows_ , the bastard. Cheeks ruddy and chest heaving. And he flirted all morning, eyes searching and firm hands patting his arm between rounds. Not as outrageous as his sister, but more intent and steady. Unwavering.

Carver gets knocked down by Bull’s lieutenant, but laughs full-throated as soon as he retrieves his breath. He gets up, clasping the other’s on their backs. Cullen can feel sweat cooling tacky and uncomfortable on the small of his own. Carver shoots him a grin, before something catches his eyes and his face grows shuttered.

Following his line of sight, Cullen catches the Champion’s dark hair watching them from up on the ramparts.

“She’s sneaky like that. More a rogue than a mage,” Carver says from right beside him.

“You’re soft-footed yourself. Maker, you startled me.”

“Hm. I suppose so.” He angles his body, close enough that Cullen can tell he shaved this morning, jaw smooth.

A thought flits through his mind. “Carver, are you flirting with me to piss off your sister?”

Carver shrugs, but casually tenses his arm to make the tendons ripple. It’s distracting, but not enough to keep his stomach from feeling sour. He thought– he’s not sure what he had thought.

“Does it matter?” he asks. Cullen wants to snap that of _course_ it matters, but holds his tongue. In a way, he can’t say he disagrees. It’s unlikely they’re to survive Corypheus, let alone the assault they’re planning on Adamant. Perhaps Cullen should just take the opportunity for a quick tumble when he’s offered it, no emotions. “Are you? She’s still with the elf, you know.”

“What? No,” Cullen says, confused and taken aback. It clicks then, how he mistook jealousy for spite. Despite himself, something thrums within him at that notion.

“Oh.” Carver deflates his puffed up chest, and for the first time this morning, he looks vulnerable. A tiny, smug part of Cullen revels in feeling wanted. Needed.

“I enjoyed your company last night.” Cullen hesitates, then lays a gentle hand on Carver’s arm. It practically burns the palm of his hand. “We never finished the whiskey. Come back tonight.”

Carver’s face splits into a grin, and leans in closer. “I’ll be there, Commander.” Cullen’s breath catches as Carver reaches down and nicks his waterskin, emptying it in a single gulp.

Carver takes off, a spring in his step as he throws himself back at the Chargers, roaring through their drills. He feels nervous, but that prickly kind of nervous that makes it difficult to think of anything else. His expectation on life after this war is… still bleak, but a companion, however brief, sounds nice. Beyond nice. Especially someone he could see remaining a friend. An ally.

Cullen sneaks a peek at the ramparts. He sees Marian’s dark mop of hair, and then she takes a step back and out of sight.

He groans.

Forget Corypheus or his army or whatever emotional danger Carver poses, Cullen will be dead before nightfall.

**Author's Note:**

> There's some slight angst here — Cullen's an inherently pessimistic person and Carver doesn't know that the Calling he's hearing is false. I like to think there's a bit of a hopeful ending despite their reservations and shared history. This was a super fun dynamic to try and pick apart, and I hope my 6 hours of sleep did it justice!


End file.
